17. Seventeen
At least he still had all his fingers. And both eyes. Smuggie wrested his hat low on his brow and silently cursed the searing light edging its way into the alley he’d tucked into. He’d had to sleep through Bella’s performance last night. Spending too long stalking around in the daylight was getting to him.
Aside from the pressing boredom and opposite waking hours, snooping and watching wasn’t so bad a job.
Somewhere to his left, a donkey brayed, and a man shouted. Another thing he didn’t care for in the daytime. Too many people angry about the work they had to accomplish before they could kick up their heels and enjoy the finer parts of life. After all, all the good things came after sunset.
Usually.
The dark could also give a man too much confidence. Make him forget where he came from and who held his leash. Maybe all this sunlight was what he needed to snap him out of the overconfidence the shadows provided. He’d let himself pretend to be the king of his little world, forgetting the emperor who ruled over them all.
By now, he should know every friend had itching ears and every woman who warmed his bed whispered to Durkin in the dark. No one made a move unobserved, no matter how small.
Boss might not know he’d moved that crate of whiskey and put it back on the packet with the new cargo from St. Louis. But he doubted it. More likely, he’d been given the opportunity to correct a mistake before he finished making it. And he’d been given the chance to prove his unwavering loyalty.
A tingle jittered down his spine. Durkin wasn’t known for second chances or soft spots. Smuggie flexed his intact fingers. Which meant he tolerated the almost-mistake because he wanted something.
He watched the boat across the street. Better find something useful from the lawyer and his dame soon. He curled his fingers, and the scar between his thumb and forefinger stretched. Insurance, so to speak.
Carts rolled past, stirring up dust. Men laughed, and deckmen called out to one another as they loaded their cargo.
Smuggie tapped his pocket for a cigarette but came up empty. Too bad he hadn’t had time to refill his case.
He edged closer to the light and propped his shoulder against the bricks. Across the street from his hiding place, the lady captain’s steamer bobbed in the shallows. Men bustled around the deck not doing anything in particular. One massive dark-skinned man toted a mop and bucket.
He didn’t see the other one. The older bloke with a criminal reputation.
That had been a dead end. The man never left the boat, so Smuggie hadn’t had the opportunity to put any pressure on him. And then after three days of nothing from the lawyer, he’d grown anxious.
Thankfully, now he had a lead.
He poked his head out of the alley as a dish in a tight-fitting skirt swept past.
Good thing he’d gotten better at hanging around that house unseen. The bush near the cliff wasn’t the most comfortable place to spend the day. Three times, he’d been certain the neighbor lady had spotted him, but his diligence paid off.
About an hour ago, Gray had scrambled out of his house without a proper hat and coat. For that kind of fella, lack of formal attire indicated either desperation or excitement. Either would be beneficial.
After following at a safe distance, Smuggie’d been rewarded with the sight of the lawyer waving around a book before climbing on that steamer.
The blond in the pink skirt slid behind a motorcar, and he eased out farther to track her progress. He’d have to ask around about her. Fresh faces didn’t often poke around here. At least not the feminine kind.
He sucked teeth that vaguely tasted of whiskey and focused on the steamer again.
That book Gray had been waving around might be something useful at last. He still had no idea how the lawyer’s treasure hunt tied to that double-crosser Scissors who’d duped both Durkin and Mickey’s crew out of that St. Louis bank haul. But Smuggie wasn’t getting paid to know things. He kept all his body parts by doing what he was told and relaying information.
“Whatcha doin’, mister?”
The small voice nearly sent Smuggie out of his skin. He jerked his head back into the protective shadows so quickly he slammed against the brick. Pain scurried up the base of his skull and throbbed through his temple. A growl came from his chest. He’d grown too complacent in his thoughts and had failed to look for danger in the light.
He blinked to adjust his eyes to the boy bathed in sunshine at the alley’s opening.
“Breeze off, lad.” Smuggie shooed the skinny child of about eight.
The boy didn’t move, apparently not having enough sense to recognize the man he stared at wasn’t the friendly sort.
“Are you hungry?” The lad took a step closer, peering into the dark. “I’m going to get some po’boys. You want one too?”
What? Why would this boy offer a stranger food? Especially one clearly uninterested in pleasant conversation and juvenile company.
“Don’t want no mudbug sandwiches.” He waved a hand at the kid. “Move along.”
“But what are you doing? Are you lost?” The boy came closer, peering into the darkness. “Do you need help?”
A chuckle ruptured through a closed-off place deep inside, and he nearly choked on it. “You want to help me?”
“Sure, mister. Being lost and hungry isn’t a reason to hide.” The kid rocked back on his heels and grinned. “Those are both things we can fix up fast.”
A slimy feeling curled in Smuggie’s gut. Why did this boy look familiar?
“Lucas! What’re you doing?” A woman’s sharp voice made the kid swivel.
Smuggie pulled deeper into the alley, far back enough not to be seen but not so far as to miss what they said. A cat growled somewhere behind him.
“But, Stella,” the boy said over the yowling cat. “A man in there needs help.”
“What man?” The woman’s tone held more suspicion than concern.
Good. At least the boy had someone sensible in his life.
“Come on. Mama’s waiting on us.” The woman’s form moved into the halo of light, oversized hat bobbing. “Bo’s got some traps ready.”
A shuffling came from their silhouette figures as the woman yanked on the boy’s hand, and he planted his feet.
“But the hungry man needs our help.”
The woman sighed. After grumbling something Smuggie couldn’t hear, she called out to the darkness.
“Go to Anna’s in the alley. Tell her Stella sent you with a wooden penny. You can get something to fill your stomach.”
She pulled the boy again, and they moved out of the mouth of the alley. Curious, Smuggie eased past a discarded crate and returned to the opening.
“What’s a wooden penny?” The boy looked over his shoulder and caught Smuggie’s eye.
For some reason, he didn’t pull back into the shadows as they ambled down the street, voices mingling with complaining donkeys and shouting workmen.
“Means Mama will give him a free meal,” the woman said louder than necessary.
The boy’s response faded to incoherent jabbering, and a cart loaded with flour sacks lumbered between them and Smuggie.
He scratched the back of his neck. Someone better keep a close eye on that kid. Boy could find himself with a life he wasn’t looking for if he talked to strangers. Or wandered off to places he shouldn’t have gone.
He shrugged off the odd feeling settling in his gut and returned his focus to the boat.
The lady captain emerged. Dressed in a pair of high-waisted trousers with wide legs, she looked more feminine than she had before in men’s overalls or straight slacks. The blue blouse had sleeves and a functional collar. Her small dog trotted on her heels, followed by the lawyer.
Lockhart made hand signals and called out to her crew, and they began scurrying around.
Finally.
Smuggie stepped out into the offending light.
Time to tell Durkin they were on the move.